“How can you do this?” Alec demanded, glaring up at Yhakobin now. “Why did you make it, just to kill it?”

Yhakobin shook his head as he wiped his hands on a cloth. “I must admit, I did not expect it to have a voice. The writings indicated quite the opposite. I can only assume that your purification was not as successful as I’d thought.”

“This- ” Alec swallowed hard. “This is my fault? I’m not the one cutting it to pieces!”

“The rhekaro is not a pet, or a plaything, Alec,” Yhakobin remonstrated gently, as if speaking to a stupid child. “They are created to be used.”

“You cut off its fingers. And its eye!”

“And I may accomplish great healings with them, and strong spells. Or I might have, if it was better made. I won’t know until I test them. But for now, I must ask you to give it another few drops of your blood.”

Alec stepped back, but Ahmol was there, keeping him in place and reaching for his wrist.

“You’re so concerned with its pain. Are you saying that you begrudge it a healing? I must know if that much is true. Give me your hand.”

“A healing?” Alec clung to the only thing he’d understood so far and let Yhakobin prick his finger. As before, the alchemist guided the hand to the rhekaro’s lips, and this time Alec did not resist as they closed around his fingertip.

It suckled harder this time, and Alec felt a strange twinge run up his arm. He’d have pulled away instinctively, but for the change that happened almost instantaneously.

The raw wounds on its limbs closed as he watched, leaving only the thinnest of scars. Where the three fingers had been severed, tiny white buds were already taking form, growing back like a lizard’s severed tail.

The grey skin took on its former pale glow and, strangest of all, the fine hair also seemed to be growing; within a few minutes, it lay like a silvery white cloud around the thing’s head.

The duke, whom Alec had quite forgotten about, suddenly appeared at his elbow, saying something to Yhakobin in hushed, awed tones.

“It is not human, for all that it may appear so,” Yhakobin warned, studying Alec’s face carefully. “It would be a great mistake for you to think otherwise.”

“It screamed when you hurt it.”

“Metals ring under the smith’s hammer. It’s nothing more than that.” He pulled Alec’s hand away.

Two blue eyes fluttered open as the rhekaro tried to follow the finger with questing lips. The hair was down to its shoulders now. Alec couldn’t resist testing the feel of it between his fingers. It was silky soft, like Gherin’s.

“If you’re done with it, it can stay with me,” he offered, remembering this time to add, “Ilban.”

The alchemist raised an eyebrow at him, then chuckled softly. “Good night, Alec.” He gave an order to his men and they escorted Alec back to his new cell. The smell of the cellar wafted up from below, damp earth, old blood, and the sweet stink of the “birth.” It was almost a relief when they slammed the door and shut out the stench of it.

Alec curled up on the bed and stared at his pricked fingertip. His blood had helped create that thing, and now it healed it. How was that possible?

Not just his blood, but Hâzadriëlfaie blood. That must be why they’d left Aurënen and disappeared into the north, all those centuries ago. They must have known what could be done with their blood, and they fled, far out of reach of Zengat and Plenimar. But what was the rhekaro used for, that the Hazâd would go to such lengths to keep such things from being made? And was it really going to be used to make medicine for the Overlord’s child? And how? Would they cook it or boil it or drain its blood?

Oh Illior, why didn’t you warn me? What’s the use of an oracle, if not to keep something like this from happening?

There’d been no warning, though. He’d gone over the rhui’auros’s words endlessly, trying to glean their meaning, but he couldn’t see any way they’d hinted at such a horror.

Pondering this, he dozed off again, only to be roused by more sounds of pain from the workshop.

He pulled the pillow around his ears, trying to shut out the pitiful cries. When that proved impossible, he frantically pulled the horn spoon from its hiding place and staggered over to the door to inspect the lock.

Seregil had taught him many things over the years, and among the first of those lessons had been lock-craft. With his tool roll in hand, he could open just about anything, but Seregil had also taught him to make do with what he had, and for just such situations as this.

The lock hole was small. He put his eye to it first, but the light was wrong to make out the workings, and he couldn’t get even the tip of his little finger inside to feel around. He went back to the bed and turned the horn spoon over in his hands, noting how the grain ran lengthwise down the handle. If he could snap it just so, it might yield the beginnings of a usable pick.

Upstairs the cries started again, weaker this time.

Don’t listen. I can’t do anything, not unless I can make this work. Just use what I have.

Sweat rolled down his face and back as he tried to break it between his fingers, but the horn was too strong. After several false starts, he found that he could jam the edge of it between the bed frame and the wall, like a vise, and use the lip of the pitcher to bend it.

The cries continued intermittently, making his heart race. As he worked, he couldn’t help wondering what he’d do if he did manage to get the door open. In his current state, weakened and unarmed, he’d be no match for Yhakobin’s guards, or the man himself, probably. But then, head-on fights weren’t the nightrunner way; Seregil had done his best to instill that in Alec, who’d had more of a tendency for honest fights.

The cries grew weaker as he finally snapped off the bowl and broke the handle into two long spines.

He held them up, inspecting the taper and thickness. Still too big.

He didn’t dare try breaking them again, so he settled on the floor by the bed and burnished the rough edges against the stone flags. His hands began to shake and sweat stung his eyes. To distract himself, he concentrated on recalling Seregil’s various lessons on the subject. A bit of doggerel came to him and ran round and round inside his head.

A crafty nightrunner died of late,

And found himself at Bilairy’s Gate.

He stood outside and refused to knock

Because he meant to pick the lock.

The silly little verse took him back to their old rooms at the Cockerel, sitting knee to knee with Seregil as he took some lock to pieces and explained how it worked. They’d spent countless hours at it. Some had one pin, others had as many as five. Others had wards or poison needles to stick the unwary thief, but they all could be tickled open if you had the skill.

After a considerable amount of rubbing and burnishing, he had a crude tool. Going to the door, he inserted it into the lock and gingerly felt around.

This lock, a simple two-pinner, was hardly a challenge, even with his makeshift tools. The horn pieces made little noise as he carefully probed the works. With a little careful twiddling, he threw the tumblers and heard each satisfying click as they fell.

All had gone silent upstairs.

That doesn’t mean Yhakobin is gone, he reminded himself as he eased the door open and peered around it. The low murmur of voices came from upstairs-Yhakobin’s and someone else’s. Alec crept halfway up the stairs to hear better. They were speaking Plenimaran, so he had no idea what they were saying, but he recognized the other voice. It was Khenir. He was surprised at the tone: it sounded as if the two men were arguing about something. Khenir was using the humble “Ilban,” but his tone grew less and less respectful as the debate went on. Alec caught his own name several times. Was Khenir arguing on his behalf?